The complete malazan boo.., p.76
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 76
“You know them—”
“The symbols have bred. I know the old ones, and those will get me killed by the first tribe that finds me.”
“Passage is yours with but one symbol, Kalam. Across the breadth of Seven Cities, I swear it.”
The assassin stepped back. “What is it?”
“You are Dryjhna’s child, a soldier of the Apocalypse. Make the whirlwind gesture—do you recall it?”
Suspicious, Kalam slowly nodded. “Yet I have seen so many more, so many new symbols. What of them?”
“Amidst the cloud of locusts there is but one,” Mebra said. “How best to keep the Red Blades blind? Please, Kalam, you must go. I have repaid the debt…”
“If you have betrayed me, Adaephon Ben Delat shall know of it. Tell me, could you escape Quick Ben with his warrens unveiled?”
Mute, his face pale as the moonlight, Mebra shook his head.
“The whirlwind.”
“Yes, I swear by the Seven.”
“Do not move,” Kalam commanded. One hand on the long-knife at his belt, the assassin stepped forward, crouched and collected the object that Mebra had dropped earlier. He heard the spy’s breath catch and smiled. “Perhaps I will take this with me, as guarantee.”
“Please, Kalam—”
“Silence.” The assassin found himself holding a muslin-wrapped book. He pulled the dirt-stained cloth away. “Hood’s breath!” he whispered. “From the High Fist’s vaults at Aren…into the hands of an Ehrlii spy.” He looked up and met Mebra’s eyes. “Does Pormqual know of the theft of that which is to unleash the Apocalypse?”
The little man grinned, displaying a row of sharp silver-capped teeth. “The fool could have his silk pillow stolen from under him and would not know it. You see, Kalam, if you take this as guarantee, every warrior of the Apocalypse will be hunting you. The Holy Book of Dryjhna has been freed and must return to Raraku, where the Seeress—”
“Will raise the Whirlwind,” Kalam finished. The ancient tome felt heavy as a slab of granite in his hands. Its bhederinhide binding was stained and scarred, the lambskin pages within smelling of lanolin and bloodberry ink. And on those pages…words of madness, and in the Holy Desert waits Sha’ik, the Seeress, the rebellion’s promised leader… “You shall tell me the final secret, Mebra, the one the carrier of this Book must know.”
The spy’s eyes widened with alarm. “This cannot be your hostage, Kalam! Take me in its stead, I beg you!”
“I shall deliver it into the Holy Desert Raraku,” Kalam said. “Into Sha’ik’s own hands, and this shall purchase my passage, Mebra. And should I detect any treachery, should I see any single soldier of the Apocalypse on my trail, the Book is destroyed. Do you understand me?”
Mebra blinked sweat from his eyes, then jerked a nod. “You must ride a stallion the color of sand, your blood blended. You must wear a telaba of red. Each night you must face your trail, on your knees, and unwrap the Book and call upon Dryjhna—that, and no more, not another word, for the Whirlwind goddess shall hear and obey—and all signs of your trail shall be obliterated. You must wait an hour in silence, then wrap the Book once again. It must never be exposed to sunlight, for the time of the Book’s awakening belongs to Sha’ik. I shall now repeat those instructions—”
“No need,” Kalam growled.
“Are you truly an outlaw?”
“Is this not proof enough?”
“Deliver into Sha’ik’s hands the Book of Dryjhna, and your name shall be sung to the heavens for all time, Kalam. Betray the cause, and your name shall ride spit into the dust.”
The assassin shrouded the Book once more in its muslin wrap, then tucked it into the folds of his tunic. “Our words are done.”
“Blessings of the Seven, Kalam Mekhar.”
With a grunt his only reply, Kalam moved to the doorway, pausing to scan outside. Seeing no one under the moonlight, he slipped through the opening.
Still crouched against the wall, Mebra watched the assassin leave. He strained to hear telltale sounds of Kalam crossing the rocks, bricks and rubble, but heard nothing. The spy wiped sweat from his brow, tilted his head back against the cool stone and closed his eyes.
A few minutes later he heard the rustle of armor at the tower’s entrance. “You saw him?” Mebra asked, eyes still shut.
A low voice rumbled in reply. “Lostara follows him. He has the Book?”
Mebra’s thin mouth widened in a smile. “Not the visitor I anticipated. Oh no, I could never have imagined such a fortuitous guest. That was Kalam Mekhar.”
“The Bridgeburner? Kiss of Hood, Mebra, had I known, we would have cut him down before he’d taken a step from this tower.”
“Had you tried,” Mebra said, “you and Aralt and Lostara would now be feeding your blood to Jen’rahb’s thirsty roots.”
The large warrior barked a laugh, stepping inside. Behind him, as the spy had guessed, loomed Aralt Arpat, guarding the entrance, tall and wide enough to block most of the moonlight.
Tene Baralta rested his gauntleted hands on the sword pommels on either side of his hips. “What of the man you first approached?”
Mebra sighed. “As I told you, we would likely have needed a dozen nights such as this one. The man took fright and is probably halfway to G’danisban by now. He…reconsidered, as any reasonable man would.” The spy rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his telaba. “I cannot believe our luck, Baralta—”
Tene Baralta’s mailed hands was a blur as it flashed out and struck Mebra, the spurred links raking deep gashes across the man’s face. Blood spattered the wall. The spy reeled back, hands to his torn face.
“You are too familiar,” Baralta said calmly. “You have prepared Kalam, I take it? The proper…instructions?”
Mebra spat blood, then nodded. “You shall be able to trail him unerringly, Commander.”
“All the way to Sha’ik’s camp?”
“Yes. But I beg you, be careful, sir. If Kalam senses you, he will destroy the Book. Stay a day behind him, even more.”
Tene Baralta removed a fragment of bhederin hide from a pouch at his belt. “The calf yearns for its mother,” he said.
“And seeks her without fail,” Mebra finished. “To kill Sha’ik, you shall need an army, Commander.”
The Red Blade smiled. “That is our concern, Mebra.”
Mebra drew a deep breath, hesitating, then said, “I ask only one thing, sir.”
“You ask?”
“I beg, Commander.”
“What is it?”
“Kalam lives.”
“Your wounds are uneven, Mebra. Allow me to caress the other side of your face.”
“Hear me out, Commander! The Bridgeburner has returned to Seven Cities. He claims himself a soldier of the Apocalypse. Yet is Kalam one to join Sha’ik’s camp? Can a man born to lead content himself to follow?”
“What is your point.”
“Kalam is here for another reason, Commander. He sought only safe passage across the Pan’potsun Odhan. He takes the Book because to do so will ensure that passage. The assassin is heading south. Why? I think that is something the Red Blades—and the Empire—would know. And such knowledge can only be gained while he yet breathes.”
“You have suspicions.”
“Aren.”
Tene Baralta snorted. “To slip a blade between Pormqual’s ribs? We would all bless that, Mebra.”
“Kalam cares nothing for the High Fist.”
“Then what does he seek at Aren?”
“I can think of only one thing, Commander. A ship bound for Malaz.” Hunched, his face pulsing with pain, Mebra watched with hooded eyes as his words sank roots into the Red Blade commander’s mind.
After a long moment, Tene Baralta asked in a low voice, “What do you plan?”
Although it cost him, Mebra smiled.
Like massive limestone slabs each resting against the other, the cliffs rose from the desert floor the height of four hundred arm-spans. Gouged across the weathered face were deep fissures, and tucked inside the largest of these, a hundred and fifty arm-spans above the sands, was a tower. A single arched window showed black against the bricks.
Mappo sighed shakily. “I see no obvious approach, but there must be one.” He shot a glance back at his companion. “You believe it is occupied.”
Icarium rubbed the crusted blood from his brow, then nodded. He half slid the sword from its sheath, frowning at the fragments of flesh still snagged on the notched edge.
The D’ivers had caught them unawares, a dozen leopards the color of sand, streaming from a gully bed less than ten paces to their right as the two travelers prepared to make camp. One of the beasts had leaped onto Mappo’s back, jaws closing on the nape of his neck, the fangs punching through the Trell’s tough hide. It had attacked him as if he was an antelope, seeking to bite down on his windpipe as it dragged him down, but Mappo was no antelope. Though the canines sank deep, they found only muscle. Enraged, the Trell had reached over his head and torn the animal from his shoulders. Gripping the snarling leopard by its skin at neck and hips, he had slammed it hard against a boulder, shattering its skull.
The other eleven had closed in on Icarium. Even as Mappo flung his attacker’s body aside and whirled, he saw four of the beasts lying motionless around the half-blood Jaghut. Fear gripped the Trell suddenly as his gaze fell on Icarium. How far? How far has the Jhag gone? Beru bless us, please.
One of the other beasts had wrapped its jaws around Icarium’s left thigh and Mappo watched the warrior’s ancient sword chop downward, decapitating the leopard. In a macabre detail, the head held on briefly, a blood-gushing lump protruding from the warrior’s leg.
The surviving cats circled.
Mappo lunged forward, hands closing on a lashing tail. He bellowed as he swung the squalling creature through the air. Writhing, the leopard sailed seven or eight paces until it struck a rock wall, snapping its spine.
It was already too late for the D’ivers. Realizing its error, it tried to pull away, but Icarium was unrelenting. Giving voice to a keening hum, the Jhag plunged among the five remaining leopards. They scattered but not quickly enough. Blood fountained, sheared flesh thudded into the sand. Within moments five more bodies lay still on the ground.
Icarium whirled, seeking more victims, and the Trell took half a step forward. After a moment Icarium’s high-pitched keening fell away and he slowly straightened from his crouch. His stony gaze found the Trell, and he frowned.
Mappo saw the beads of blood on Icarium’s brow. The eerie sound was gone. Not too far. Safe. Gods below, this path…I am a fool to follow. Close, all too close.
The scent of D’ivers blood so copiously spilled would draw others. The two had quickly repacked their camp gear and set off at a swift pace. Before leaving, Icarium withdrew a single arrow from his quiver, which he stabbed into the sand in full view.
They traveled at a dogtrot through the night. Neither was driven by fear of dying; for both of them, it was killing that brought a greater dread. Mappo prayed that Icarium’s arrow would prove sufficient warning.
Dawn brought them to the eastern escarpment. Beyond the cliffs rose the range of weathered mountains that divided Raraku from the Pan’potsun Odhan.
Something had ignored the arrow and was trailing them, perhaps a league behind. The Trell had sensed it an hour earlier, a Soletaken, and the form it had taken was huge.
“Find us the ascent,” Icarium said, stringing his bow. He set out his remaining arrows, squinting back along their trail. After a hundred paces the shimmering heat that rose like a curtain obscured everything beyond. If the Soletaken came into view and charged, the Jhag had time to loose half a dozen arrows. The warrens carved into their shafts could bring down a dragon, but Icarium’s expression made it clear he was sickened by the thought.
Mappo probed at the puncture wounds on the back of his neck. The torn flesh was hot, septic and crawling with flies. The muscles ached with a deep throb. He pulled a blade of jegura cactus from his pack and squeezed its juices onto the wounds. Numbness spread, allowing him to move his arms without the stabbing agony that had had him bathed in sweat over the last few hours. The Trell shivered with sudden chill. The cactus juice was so powerful it could be used only once a day, lest the numbing effect spread to the heart and lungs. And if anything, it would make the flies thirstier.
He approached the cleft in the rockface. Trell were plains dwellers. Mappo had no special skill in climbing, and he was not looking forward to the task ahead. The fissure was deep enough to swallow the sun’s morning light, and narrow at the base, barely the width of his shoulders. Ducking, he slipped inside, the cool, musty air triggering another wave of shivering. His eyes quickly adjusting, he made out the fissure’s back wall six paces away. There were no stairs, no handholds. Tilting his head, he looked up. The cleft widened higher up but was unrelieved until it reached what he took to be the base of the tower. Nothing so simple as a dangling knotted rope. Growling in frustration, Mappo stepped back into the sunlight.
Icarium stood facing their trail with arrow nocked and bow raised. Thirty paces from him was a massive brown bear, down on all fours, swaying, nose lifted and testing the wind. The Soletaken had arrived.
Mappo joined his companion. “This one is known to me,” he said quietly.
The Jhag lowered his weapon, releasing the bowstring’s tension. “He is sembling,” he said.
The bear lurched forward.
Mappo blinked against the sudden blurring of his vision. He tasted grit, nostrils twitching at the strong spicy smell that came with the change. He felt an instinctive wave of fear, a dusty dryness making swallowing difficult. A moment later the sembling was complete, and a man now strode toward them, naked and pale under the harsh sunlight.
Mappo slowly shook his head. When masked, the Soletaken was huge, powerful, a mass of muscle—yet now, in his human form, Messremb stood no more than five feet in height, was almost hairless and thin to the point of emaciation, narrow-faced and shovel-toothed. His small eyes, the color of garnet, shone within wrinkled nests of humor that drew his mouth into a grin.
“Mappo Trell, my nose told me it was you!”
“It’s been a long time, Messremb.”
The Soletaken was eyeing the Jhag. “Aye, north of Nemil it was.”
“Those unbroken pine forests better suited you, I think,” Mappo said, his memories drawn back to that time for a moment, those freer days of massive Trellish caravans and the great journeys undertaken.
The man’s grin fell away. “That it did. And you, sir, must be Icarium, maker of mechanisms and now the bane of D’ivers and Soletaken. Know that I am greatly relieved you have lowered your bow—there was racing thunder in my chest when I watched you take aim.”
Icarium was frowning. “I would be bane to no one, were the choice mine,” he said. “We were attacked without warning,” he added, the words sounding strangely uncertain.
“Meaning you had no chance to warn the hapless creature. Pity the pieces of his soul. I, however, am anything but precipitous. Cursed only with a curious nose. What scent is joined with the Trell’s, I wondered, so close to Jaghut blood, yet different? Now that my eyes have given me answer I can resume the Path.”
“Do you know where it takes you?” Mappo asked.
Messremb stiffened. “You have seen the gates?”
“No. What do you expect to find there?”
“Answers, old friend. Now I shall spare you the taste of my veering by putting some distance between us. Do you wish me well, Mappo?”
“I do, Messremb. And add a warning: we crossed paths with Ryllandaras four nights ago. Be careful.”
Something of the savage bear glittered in the Soletaken’s eyes. “I shall look out for him.”
Mappo and Icarium watched the man walk away, disappearing behind an outcrop of rock. “Madness lurked within him,” Icarium said.
The Trell flinched at those words. “Within them all,” he sighed. “I’ve yet to find an ascent, by the way. The cave reveals nothing.”
The sound of shod hooves reached them, slow and plodding. From a trail paralleling the cliff face, a man on a black mule appeared. He sat cross-legged on a high wood saddle, shrouded in a ragged, dirt-stained telaba. His hands, which rested on the ornate saddlehorn, were the color of rust. A hood hid his features. The mule was a strange-looking beast, its muzzle black, the skin of its ears black, as were its eyes. No lightening of its ebon hue was anywhere visible with the exception of dust and spatters of what might have been dried blood.
The man swayed on the saddle as they approached. “No way in,” he hissed, “but the way out. It’s not yet the hour. A life given for a life taken, remember those words, remember them. You are wounded. You are bright with infection. My servant will tend to you. A caring man with salty hands, one wrinkled, one pink—do you grasp the significance of that? Not yet. Not yet. So few…guests. But I have been expecting you.”
The mule stopped opposite the cleft, swinging a mournful gaze on the two travelers as its rider struggled to pull his legs from their crossed position. Whimpers of pain accompanied the effort, until his frantic attempts overwhelmed his balance and, with a squeal of dismay, the man toppled, thumping into the dust.
Seeing crimson red bloom through the telaba’s weave, Mappo stepped forward. “You bear your own wounds, sir!”
The man writhed on the ground like an upended tortoise, his legs still trapped in their crossed position. His hood fell back, revealing a large hawk nose, tufts of wiry gray beard, a tattooed bald pate and skin like dark honey. A row of perfect white teeth showed in his grimace.
Mappo knelt beside him, squinting to see signs of the wound that had spilled so much blood. A smell of iron was pungent in the Trell’s nose. After a moment he reached under the man’s cloak and withdrew an unstoppered bladder. Grunting, he glanced over at Icarium. “Not blood. Paint. Red ochre paint.”
“Help me, you oaf!” the man snapped. “My legs!”
Bemused, Mappo helped the man unlock his legs, every move eliciting moans. As soon as they were free the man sat up and started beating his own thighs. “Servant! Wine! Wine, damn your wood-rotted brain!”
